Sun On Our Shoulders
by 00Derezzed00
Summary: What thoughts run wild and unrestrained in their minds? Is something amiss, or were things simply never right? What happens when you confront your worst fears?


Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affiliated with 'Gears of War'.

Author's Note: I wrote this as a musing on the characters' more intimate moments. The piece was inspired by the song "Atlantic" by Keane, and it's a nice accompaniment to the writing if you choose to listen to it. Apart from that, reviews, comments and suggestions are welcome!

* * *

_I hope all my days_

_Will be lit by your face_

_I hope all the years_

_Will hold tight our promises…_

Keane – Atlantic

* * *

The light flittered in serenely, dappling the floor in whimsical shapes and patterns. He sighed, barely opening his eyes, enjoying the way the warmth felt on his skin. He didn't know where he was; he could've been anywhere, though he knew where he _wanted _to be. She'd come in any moment now, the waft of breakfast trailing in behind her like a beautiful breeze on a balmy summer's day. She'd lean down, slowly, and wake him with a gentle caress across his bare shoulder, and that mere action would speak a thousand words to him. Her soft lips would flick across his ears as she whispered to him in her sweet voice.

"Dominic," she'd sing, a slight giggle lifting her tone. He smiled, opening his eyes slowly. He glanced over to where Maria was standing. That familiar jab of sadness as he realized she wasn't.

She wasn't.

He had to get that fact straight. Instead, his standard-issue COG boots, thick black dirt clinging heavily to their soles, stood in her place on the algae green tiles of his room. His breath was lodged somewhere in his throat as he glanced around, almost panicked. He felt displaced, dismantled from his sense of time and place. He didn't know exactly if he _was_ in the right place, if he was dreaming or not. No matter how many mornings he spent trying to figure it out, he couldn't shake the feeling. It happened most mornings, and jolted him from his sleep most nights. He'd shoot up in bed, sweat glazing his tan skin in a fine sheen as he glanced around madly, desperately trying to find his belongings; frenetically attempting to grasp something familiar to him. He didn't talk to the psychiatrist about it, even though he was meant to have regular meetings with her. Hell, he rarely spoke to Marcus about it, let alone her. It wasn't that he didn't think there was a problem involved here, some sort of mental disorder lingering and bubbling away beneath the surface. Nah, it wasn't that.

He didn't want to take the pills, because sometimes, if even for a split second, he felt like he was at home, and that nothing had changed. There was no war. Maria was not gone. He was at home, in their bed, with the kids sleeping safely and securely in the next bedroom. He didn't want to forget that small feeling of relief – he didn't want to lose those few seconds of respite in the near-constant hellish nightmare that his life had become. He clung to it dearly, as his last semblance, beyond Marcus, of family and safety.

He kicked off the bed sheets, frustration and sadness running laps away inside of him. His memory had returned and the room became familiar again, except only in the way that a stranger you saw often was familiar to you. He stretched his large arms, feeling the ache seep down towards his back. He was tired, his muscles tight. He shuffled to the bathroom, barely glancing at the metal analog clock hanging on the wall. The bed sheet was strewn across the floor behind him; he didn't bother with it. On a good day, he'd get up and fix the bed. On a day like this, he left it the way it was – pillows on the wrong side of the bed, only because he liked to sleep facing the window like he did before the war.

But every day, regardless of his mindset, he followed the same routine. His body clock was impeccable, so he got up at roughly the same time every morning: 0600 hours. By then, once he'd regained his 'sanity', he'd struggle to make it to the bathroom. He'd stand at the toilet bowl, staring blankly at the tiles in front of him, while he did one of the only satisfying things in his life: take a nice, long piss. When he was done, he'd haphazardly shave, throw on his gear and head down to the cafeteria. By then, he might've gotten a bit perkier – it was something he couldn't control, and knew he shouldn't try. A natural buoyancy in his spirit, and it was keeping him afloat. It was one of the things Maria loved most about him. She said he was her sunshine. He knew it to be the reverse.

He shaved his face in a daze, examining the thin scars marking him like some sort of war journal. He was meticulous about his goatee design, much to the scornful appreciation of Baird.

"Hey buddy, is there a reason you always look so damn groomed? Got a date with the Locust?"

He grinned emptily at himself in the grimy mirror, tapping the razor on the side of the ceramic. That bastard was a real pain in the ass, but he took the edge off Dom's own frustration. Like he lived through Baird's disdain for existence.

The light bulb above him flickered hesitantly. He flicked it off resolutely and grabbed his gear. He hoisted the heavy pieces on mechanically, feeling the coolness become trapped close to his body as the armour settled against his muscles. When he was done, he stood there, stoic and statuesque, staring avidly ahead of him. There was a mirror, but he wasn't looking at his reflection. Beside the mirror, pictures graced the sterile wall, decorated it with warmth and humanity. He approached slowly, his boots thudding on the tiles with every step, his eyes fixed on the largest photo in the centre. He stopped at the wall, his eyes tilted up ever so slightly, tracing the curves and lines of their faces, absorbing the flood of fiery colour, bursting with life. Words were bubbling up inside, rising, unbeknownst even to him – words he had heard on repeat on the days he wanted to drown in his own sorrows and without a fight to distract his lonesome mind.

"I don't want to be old, and sleep alone. An empty house is not a home…

I don't want to be old…and feel afraid."

He blinked, as though awoken from a reverie, and stepped away from the photo. He was stunned, taken aback by his own behaviour. He glanced uncomfortably at himself in the mirror before turning his back on the reflection. He didn't need…no, didn't _want_ to consider it any more. He had more important things to focus on.

* * *

R&R!


End file.
